A young couple in their twenties spoke quietly over the phone. It was a late Sunday night. The young woman sat comfortably in her bathrobe, alone. Her hair smelt of chamomile rose.

"We talked about my analysis," the man said. "Your therapy?" she asked. "Yes. I have blockage." "Blockage?" "Yes, I'm blocked." "And?" "I can't dream." "Is that bad?" "Yes." "Why?"  "I have nothing to say. Not a word. Every day is the same…are you still there?" "Hm?" "Are you still there?" "Yes." "Every day is the same. I walk in, I lie down and he asks me 'any dreams?' I say, 'no.' We sit in silence until the session is over. I pay him and I leave." "Everyday?" "Yes. I fell asleep at my last session." "What a waste." "A waste?" "Yes. Time, money. Can't you talk about something else?" "Like what?" "The weather." "No."

There was silence. The young woman kept fidgeting with the telephone wire, wrapping it round and round her finger until it couldn't wrap any further. The young man puffed nervously on his cigarette. 

"I can't stop seeing him. Not until there is progress," he said. "You're being ridiculous." "How?" "You are perfectly normal." "How do you know?" "There is nothing wrong with you." "I have blockage."

There was more silence. The man got up to pour himself a drink. The woman continued to play with the telephone wire.

"I told her about you."  "Who?" she asked. "My wife." "Oh." "She thinks you're the cause of my blockage. She thinks it would be better if I stay at home for a while.” "Do you love her?" "No, I love you." "If you love me then you should divorce her." "Not yet." "How come?" "Change will cause more blockage." "You don't want to see me anymore?" "No, I just think in order for there to be progress we should take a small break. Very small. Ten days, a week maybe."

There was a short pause. The woman inspected her cuticles, biting at the dead skin. The man crushed the end of his cigarette. 

"I don't quite understand…" "What?" he asked. "Why you should listen to her. She's not your therapist." "But it makes sense if you think about it." "Why don't you listen to your real therapist?" "He's not supposed to advise me on my life-decisions." "Then what the hell are you paying him for?" "To listen." "To what? You don't say anything."

The young man sighed.

"It's late" he said. "I've got to work tomorrow. Good-night."

He hung up the phone. The young woman listened to the dull tone as she continued to wrap the telephone wire round and round her finger.   

Juliann Garisto is currently feeling like a tragic romantic who wears her heart on her sleeve.